There’s a bobble
kind of wobble
to the walker
on the cobbles.
If you oggle
at a bobble,
it will never
be a gobble.
Not a woggle
nor a goggle,
not mistaken
for a toggle.
There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.
Not a giggle,
nor a wiggle,
and not a hint
of wibble.
There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.
If you snog-gle,
if you snuggle,
you will never
feel a tuggle.
There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.
breaths of free fresh air on a countryside run after a day of indoors chitchat
the patience of six adults watching reruns of a hastily-composed small nephew and niece nativity (‘again’, ‘now you be a shepherd’, ‘you need to tap people on the head to count them’.)
the first faint roar of a real fire you made yourself
a family friend dropping in simply to give their last unused sheet of luxury christmas wrapping paper – thick, quality white almost-card, dusted with a sprinkling of dainty gold christmas trees, topped with a red star – because they thought someone might appreciate it (they did).
a still moment, between family visits, in which to write even a little
extraplorer 